In the maelstrom of limbs and shattered whispers,
arms entwine, break, and grasp,
a wave of fury devouring the breath,
while a face, pale and still,
stands as a beacon in the storm.
There, in the primordial chaos of conflict,
she watches, both distant and present,
neither judge nor savior,
but a reflection of what is eternal,
untouched within the whirlwind of becoming.
The red of the robes speaks of blood,
of passions and human defeat,
but her garment, woven of silence,
is a hymn that embraces pain.
Those who fight do not see her,
those who fall cannot reach her,
and yet she is there, everywhere,
a witness to the All dissolving and remade.
In her gaze lies the peace
that the warriors do not seek,
the surrender of a soul
that knows no time.
Or perhaps she is but a dream,
an echo of a Self long lost,
while the world battles itself
to find an order that does not exist.
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